


Sliding Home

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:58:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thanks to Jim, Blair finally realizes the score.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sliding Home

## Sliding Home

by JC

Author's webpage: <http://www.skeeter63.org/jayci>

Author's disclaimer: The characters from the TV series "The Sentinel" are not my property, and I am not making money off of them. That's all I have to say.

* * *

Sliding Home by J.C. 

"Sandburg, I thought you didn't want any." 

Blair stopped in the middle of taking a drink and sent a quick glance to where Jim sat on the other end of the couch. He removed the bottle of beer from his lips, stared at it for a second, and then turned back to Jim. "I just wanted a sip." Which he took, setting the bottle back on the coffee table, and after a moment's thought, he pushed it a bit more in Jim's direction. He resumed flipping channels with the remote, pretending that he didn't notice Jim staring at him over the sports page, but he broke first, finally asking, "What?" 

Dropping his arms into his lap, Jim shrugged, crumpling the newspaper in the process. "It's just that every time I put a bottle of beer down, or a glass of juice, or a... _whatever_...you come by and drink it. And it's not just 'sips'...you've almost 'sipped' that bottle dry." 

"It's just a beer, Jim. Jeez, I'll get you another one when I get up. Okay?" 

Noticing the mess that he had made of the newspaper, Jim spent a few minutes putting it to rights before responding. "And you're wearing my shirt, Chief." Not looking at the garment in question, watching Blair's face closely instead. 

Blair _did_ look down at the garment in question, surprised to find it true, although he also immediately remembered how it had happened. "Oh, hey, I'm sorry, but it was hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and I just..." but his voice trailed off. "I was going to wash it," he finished weakly. 

Jim didn't answer, instead placing the folded newspaper on the table in front of him, smoothing out the remaining wrinkles with long, even strokes of his hands. After a minute or two of letting Blair sit there staring, he faced him, speaking in a low voice. "Blair, when I finished my shower this morning, you were standing in the bathroom with your dick in your hand." 

"Jim, I had to pee!" Embarrassment made Blair shout, color rising quickly to his face. "You know how it is first thing in the morning," he said more quietly. "And besides, it's not the first time that I--" He bit off the rest, painfully aware that he wasn't helping himself any. 

Nodding in agreement to the unspoken words, Jim added, "But when did you stop knocking?" Then he stood, picked up his beer bottle, and walked around the table, stopping right in front of Blair. "I just thought I should let you know that you've crossed a few lines, that's all, in case you weren't aware." He put the bottle to his lips, drained the remaining liquid, and set the bottle down. With one finger he edged the bottle closer to Blair, and then walked away. 

In stunned silence, Blair watched as Jim climbed the stairs to the loft, and then focused on the TV while listening to the sounds of Jim getting ready for bed. He fumbled for the remote, plunging the place into darkness, so it wouldn't seem like he was actually trying to see what was going on above him. But, when the bed creaked once, then twice, as Jim lay down, he found himself straining to make out the dark shape that would indicate Jim's head through the rails. 

'Crossed a few lines'? Hell, it seemed he had drifted lock, stock and barrel into Ellison Land. 

And he _hadn't_ been aware. Hadn't done any of it on purpose. Well, hadn't _consciously_ done it on purpose. It was no secret that he was firmly entrenched in Jim Ellison's life. He had given up some things, compromised on others, and taken on even more just to achieve that very position. But yet even a lot of that hadn't been by design. He hadn't _intended_ to live with Jim, hadn't intended to become a _cop_ , but from one had come the other, with a lengthy journey in between. 

Almost four years where he had been breaking down barriers, overcoming obstacles... and, yes, crossing lines... 

And once he thought about it, he had to admit that Jim had a point. A few points, actually. He didn't know when it had become a habit for him to pick up whatever bottle or cup that Jim had set down and take his fill. Even when he had his own, inevitably he migrated towards Jim, leaving an untouched drink on the other side of the room with his books or on the table with the remains of his snack, ending up near Jim...with Jim's glass in hand. 

He picked at the hem of his shirt...of _Jim's_ shirt. It wasn't like he was always wearing Jim's clothes, he told himself. They weren't exactly the same size, after all. But, if he were honest, he had to say that it wasn't the first time that he pulled on one of his roommate's shirts. Still, he didn't go around rifling through Jim's closet and drawers. Mostly it was just when he was in a rush, and Jim's fresh stacks of clothes were just sitting there in a basket at the foot of the stairs, waiting to be taken up and put away, while his own stuff was usually still in piles in his room, not having quite made it to the washing machine. A sweatshirt here, a flannel there, a tee-shirt from time to time... no big deal. And he always asked...well, he had asked plenty of times before...and Jim always said okay. Besides, the first time that Jim had come home to find Blair wearing his Jags sweatshirt, he'd only said, "Nice shirt, Sandburg," with a grin. So, surely he was okay with it, right? 

But the shirt he had on--the tee-shirt that had been hanging on the back of the door when he'd gotten out of the shower that evening-- _hadn't_ been fresh from the wash. Jim had worn it to bed the night before, had probably meant to wear it again that night. Yet when Blair had dried off and pulled on the sweatpants that he had left thrown over the towel rack, he hadn't hesitated to take the shirt from the hook, except to sniff at it a bit, noting that it didn't stink, but smelled 'worn', a mixture of Jim's deodorant and soap and sweat. Good enough to wear around the house, and he promised himself that he'd make sure that it got washed. That wasn't so bad was it? 

But what about the bathroom bit, huh, Sandburg? 

Jim was right, Blair _had_ been standing there, dick in hand, when the shower had been cut off, and Jim had pulled the curtain back that morning. Caught in the midst of shaking the last drops from the tip of his cock, and turning blearily in Jim's direction to say, "Couldn't hold it, man." Jim had only rolled his eyes and continued wiping the water from his body with his wrung-out washcloth. Something Jim did, Blair knew, before getting out of the tub, so that he was already practically dry by the time he got around to the process of actually drying off with his towel. Blair had flushed the toilet, washed his hands, and then, despite the naked man mere feet away, he had decided to go ahead and quickly brush his teeth before leaving Jim to finish up alone. 

And Jim was also right in that there had been a time when Blair would knock, then ask to come in to grab a comb, or take a leak, or whatever it was that just couldn't wait until Jim was done. Blair could even vaguely remember _not_ knocking but at least announcing himself to Jim who would be behind the curtain with the hot water showering down full blast. 'Jim, I need to wash my face and shave, man, I'm _late_.' He couldn't remember when that had stopped. 

'But it's not like I was ogling his naked body or anything. I haven't been taking any interest in him _that_ way.' In fact, that morning he had barely looked at Jim. But, obviously, he must have looked plenty on some other occasions, because all of a sudden he had no trouble detailing certain 'details', and, no matter what his mind was saying, his _body_ was taking an interest, his cock readily responding to his mental vision of an Ellison strip show. It wasn't that he had a problem with men, and he definitely didn't have a problem with Jim, but...friends, partners...it always seemed better not to go there where Jim was concerned. 

And when had Jim stopped staying behind the curtain, and started just casually exposing himself, anyway? 

The years flashed rapidly through Blair's mind, a videotape that he fast-forwarded through, then rewound and played back more slowly. Watching. Processing. Cursing himself, because for all that he observed of Jim, there had been so much that he just hadn't seen about himself. Instead, time after time after time, he had been doing what he could only laughingly term as the 'Sandburg Slide'. 

He had slid into the loft, slid in and out of danger, slid right through Death, and slid from the ruins of one career into another. At least, that's what it looked like to him in retrospect. That day where he had gone after Jim, only to find him zoned-out in the middle of the street, it was as if he had tagged the bag at third, then hit Jim running, saving him from that oncoming garbage truck, and started a long slide towards home plate. 

Sliding towards home. 

And had simply kept on sliding. Waging battles on the home front without even knowing it, and, evidently, he had been _winning_. Colliding with Jim at their home base, moving _way_ into Jim's personal space... 

Forever sliding towards, around, and into Jim. 

Blair took a deep breath, resisting the urge to get up and pace the floor. Instead, he focused, really focused, on the argument that with sickening clarity had presented itself. That, where he and Jim were concerned, there had been too many times where he had woken up one day and realized that he had slid past some major point and was already on the other side. 

It had happened with the loft, missing the moment when he had ceased being a houseguest. Suddenly startled as he crawled out of bed one morning to realize that his one-week time limit had long passed, and that Jim had acknowledged it months before by replacing the curtain to his room with something solid and permanent. He had also missed the moment when Jim had become his best friend, coming face to face with the established truth of it while dealing with his own experience of being stranded in the jungles of Peru. 

And when it came to his dissertation, he had missed a _lot_ of moments: the point where he should have put the Sentinel study aside as the subject of his formal paper, the point where he should have at least rendered his manuscript more anonymous...and most of all, the point where his partnership with Jim had become more important. It had taken things exploding in his face for him to see it, and he had found himself with no option in his mind but to publicly set fire to his work with a flame of lies. And when the smoke had cleared, he had a badge in his hand, and firearms training in his future, and 'official' recognition of their partnership. 

But he hadn't stopped there; he had kept creeping up on Jim without even thinking about it. Inching his way to... What? Would he have woken up one morning and realized that he and Jim were just...sleeping together? One more line crossed? One more thing they chalked up to the crazy, wacky world of Ellison and Sandburg? 

'I just thought I should let you know that you've crossed a few lines, that's all, in case you weren't aware,' Jim had said, not sounding mad or upset, just matter-of-fact and accepting. As if dealing with continual encroachment was part and parcel of life with Blair Sandburg. 

That's not how it ought to be, Blair decided. He didn't want anything else to 'have happened'. There had to be at least one more instance where he was in on something important from the beginning. Asking for it...saying yes to being invited in. One more time like the first days of finding Jim and entering his world, before their lives had started spiraling out of their control. 

Jim's voice drifted down to him through the darkness, soft but strong, getting his attention, but not startling him. "Do you want to talk about it?" 

Yes. No. Maybe. Finally settling for, "I don't know." 

"Well, it's late and all of that thinking is disturbing me. Come here." 

Blair climbed the stairs with slow, deliberate steps, surprised that his shaking legs were even carrying him. He sat on the edge of Jim's bed, and found himself spitting out an apology. 

"I'm sorry, Jim. I am so sorry. That I just...that I've been..." 

"I never said that I minded, Chief," Jim whispered. 

With a gentle tug, Blair was pulled down until he was stretched out beside Jim. The solid warmth of Jim's body was comfortingly familiar, excitingly different. He closed his eyes, going with it, letting go... He _wasn't_ sorry, at least not about how things were ending up, just about the fucked-up way they always seemed to get places. And it was so easy to just relax and enjoy Jim's closeness, to stop thinking and simply drift off, sliding willingly into sleep... 

Gasping, Blair bolted upright in the bed, fighting back a vague sense of panic. Amazing how he had unknowingly perfected the Sandburg Slide over the years... He got to his feet, facing Jim in the dark. "I can't do this, Jim." 

"It's okay, Chief. I just... I just wanted to see if you understood where it looked like you were heading, not make you obligated to go there." 

Jim's voice was so quiet and neutral, and Blair found himself wishing that Jim would just yell. "No, Jim. I mean that I need more time to get used to the fact that I've fallen in love with you and that...and that...I'm thinking about forever." 

"Oh. Okay." 

Blair trembled at the sound of happiness and relief that was conveyed with just those two words. "So, can we talk in the morning?" 

"Sure. Go get some rest." 

His eyes stinging with his own sense of relief and happiness, Blair turned towards the stairs, only to stop when Jim called his name. He turned back, vision blurry and unable to make out much of Jim in the darkened room. 

"Just so you know," Jim was saying, "I've had plenty of time to get used to the idea that I'm in love with you, and I don't have a problem with forever." 

Blair's legs were shaking again as he walked back downstairs. He went into his room, not closing his door behind him, and lay on his bed to think. Tomorrow he and Jim would talk about everything, and then both of them could move forward with their eyes wide open. 

Seconds later, his eyes slid shut and he slept. 

* * *

It was light out when Blair woke, the faint, faint early morning light of a new day. He stretched, groaning as bones cracked here and there, and rolled over with the intention of going back to sleep until the sun finished rising. But with awareness came anticipation, urging him out of bed for a cup of coffee, a hot shower, and a little time to get his words together while waiting for Jim to come down. As he stumbled from his room, pushing tangled hair out of his face, his insides quivered, but it didn't slow him down. Though he glanced up at the loft, he determinedly kept on to the kitchen. Coffee first to clear his head, a shower to wake up completely...then Jim. 

Blair was in his underwear and still wearing Jim's tee-shirt, slowly sipping hot coffee while standing over the counter, when Jim suddenly appeared beside him. His mind had been focused on all of the things that he wanted to say, explanations and revelations that it seemed important that Jim hear from him, and he had missed Jim approach. Setting his mug down, coffee forgotten, Blair stared. 

Sleep-rumpled, but evidently totally unruffled, Jim was staring back with a startlingly unguarded expression, and looking absolutely incredible in boxers and sleeveless undershirt. 

All words flew out of Blair's head. 

"Morning, Chief." Jim's gaze never wavered as he picked up Blair's coffee cup and took a drink. 

"Oh, fuck." 

That was the most that Blair could manage before grabbing Jim and kissing him hard. 

* * *

The sun was bright, and Blair had to blink his eyes against it as it streamed in through the skylight. When he focused, the first thing he saw was Jim's face, striking even in sleep, and he grinned. 'Slid right into that one,' he thought, 'without a word of discussion.' Unless 'oh, fuck' counted as discussion, and since that's what happened, maybe it did, he decided, grinning wider. He moved a bit closer to Jim, eyes traveling down the naked expanse of Jim's chest, then back up again to find Jim awake and watching him. 

"Hey." 

"Hey," he answered. 

Jim raised his head, propping it up on his hand. "You okay?" 

"Yeah." 

"This...okay?" 

"Oh, yeah. _We're_ okay." Blair leaned over, giving Jim a brief kiss on the lips. 

"Good." Jim paused, then said, "I would have asked you out or something, I wasn't just expecting..." 

"Shit, Jim. You've done much better than that. You've asked me in here..." \-- his hands spread indicating his surroundings, "and here..." -- one hand covering Jim's heart. "I just didn't get it before." He laughed, shaking his head at himself. "It seems that that keeps happening, me being a little slow on the uptake...with our friendship, our partnership... and, man, now this. You know, when _you_ get it, you could open your mouth and clue me in." 

"I did." 

"Yeah, you did." He poked Jim in the chest with a finger. "This time." 

Jim laid his head back on his pillow, pulling Blair into his arms. "So, ready to talk?" 

Blair smiled, turning and fitting himself along the length of Jim's body. "We've got _forever_ to talk." Then, he kissed him, slow and deep, until their hearts beat double time and their bodies were strung tight with arousal. 

"Fuck," Jim said, when they finally broke for air. 

And so they did. 

_END_


End file.
